The Story of a Lifetime
by Raela Morgan
Summary: When a reporter asks to ride along with the Winchesters on a case, hilarity, weapons play, and sarcasm ensues.  Takes place during Season 2, not AU, just between episodes.  Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Though I am a veteran, my account was lost. This is my first Supernatural fanfic. Reviews are most appreciated. But above all, just enjoy!**

**Chapter 1: Meeting the Winchesters**

It was cold, damp, and dark in the basement. I lost feeling in my hands hours ago as a result of them being shackled and chained to a hook in the wall. There was blood running down the side of my face from a gash in my forehead, more blood running down my arm from the deep laceration in my shoulder, and I was feeling a little faint.

I was in the middle of the story of my life, and I wasn't even going to survive it. How was I supposed to write my award winning story if I got killed first? It wasn't likely to happen if I was turned into nothing but a bloodstain on the floor.

But damn it, they were out there, and they were looking for me. I knew they were. I may have been a pain in the ass, but they wouldn't let me die. Unless they were already dead.

Way to focus, Aislin. I shifted my position on the floor, leaned against the wall. The chain was long enough to keep my arms in front of me, and I lifted them to press my hands against the gash in my shoulder, trying to staunch the flow of blood. It was going to take a serious amount of stitches to sew that puppy up.

Deciding I needed to occupy my mind with something other than my impending death, I thought back.

Back to the day I met Dean and Sam Winchester, and my life changed with one rakish smile.

I'd been struggling to find a decent story, one that would really kick-start my career in investigative reporting. I'd done other, boring stories, but I wanted that _one. _That one that just said, "hey, I'm a great reporter, hire me." I'm not sure exactly why I decided to search the country for two brothers who were quite possibly insane, and most assuredly dangerous. But come on, it's not every day you hear about men wanted for murder that insist it wasn't murder when the victim was already dead. And demons, ghosts? My interest was definitely piqued.

Of course, finding the two was easier said than done. It wasn't until I stumbled into some bar out in the middle of nowhere called the Roadhouse that I got my first real lead. All I wanted was a shot of whiskey. What I got was priceless information.

It was a great little bar. Dusty from the dirt road that lead to it, ancient jukebox belting out '70s and '80s music. The woman behind the bar looked like mom. Not my mom, of course, but just a mom. I moved to the bar, sat down on a stool.

"Can I get you something, honey?" she asked me.

"Shot of whiskey, if you don't mind," I told her.

"Whiskey?" It was just after 3:00 in the afternoon. A little early for whiskey, perhaps.

I nodded. "It's been one of those days."

"I hear that." She poured the shot, and I slammed it back, feeling the soothing burn trickle down my throat and warm my belly. "Anything you want to talk about?" she asked.

I shrugged. "I'm looking for two guys, and I'm not having any luck."

"Two guys?" she echoed. "One's not enough?"

I looked at her, caught the joke in the twinkle of her eyes. She smiled when I let out a bark of laughter.

"They're brothers," I explained. "The problem is they're on the run from the law, hence not easy to find."

She looked me over, taking in my worn blue jeans, boots that had seen much better days, olive drab tank top, and backpack slung over my shoulder. "These brothers got names?" she asked.

"Dean and Sam Winchester." The look on her face was enough to tell me that if she didn't know them, she certainly knew something about them.

"What do you want with Sam and Dean?" she demanded, suspicion written all over her face.

"You know them?"

"Damn right I know them. And I'll protect them boys with my life if I have to. What do you want with them?"

She was angry. Mother's indignation, I thought. So I pushed my glass forward for another shot. "I'm not looking to get them into any trouble," I began.

She snorted before I could continue. "They don't need anyone's help for that. They do a damn good job of getting themselves into trouble. Do you need help?"

"Not exactly." I took a deep breath, drank the whiskey, and explained to her that I was looking to write a story on them.

When I was finished, she was silent for a full minute before she burst into laughter. "Oh, that's rich!" She leaned against the counter, face turning bright red.

"So," I said, smiling with her laughter, "do you think you could give me a hint as to where I could find them?"

"Yeah, they're at Bobby's."

Enter Bobby Singer. An aging hunter with connections to the Winchester brothers through their father, John. Since John's death, Bobby had pretty much taken the boys under his wing, ready to lend a helping hand or a swift kick in the ass when the occasion called for it.

The bartender, who I learned was named Ellen, gave me directions to Bobby's place, a scrap yard.

When I got there, all I could see at first was piles of junked cars. But then, sitting near the beat-up house in the center of all the mess, was a '67 Chevy Impala. I neared the car, saw the gleaming paint, the spotless interior. This car was well loved. And if it wasn't, well, I'd happily take it off the owner's hands and show them how to love a car.

The screen door of the house slammed, made me jump. I looked up, saw an older gentleman with a trucker hat on come out onto the porch, grinning from ear to ear.

"You Aislin?" he asked.

"Yes. Bobby Singer?"

He nodded, held out a hand. "Ellen called me and told me you were coming." He tried, but it seemed he couldn't keep the laughter out of his voice.

I shook his hand, mounted the steps to the porch. "Are Sam and Dean here?"

He chuckled. "Yeah. They had a rough night, so they're in bed."

"Are they hurt?"

"Only Dean, but he'll be fine. Doesn't like anyone fussing over him."

Mental note; Dean Winchester was a hardass. Bobby opened the door and I preceded him into the house. He directed me to the rooms where the men were staying. I thanked him and went up.

It had taken me three months to stumble across the Roadhouse, and less than a day to find two people they knew, and be directed right to them. I chalked it up to beginner's luck.

The first room was Dean's. If he was the hardass Bobby's tone of voice made him out to be, he wouldn't mind being disturbed. I knocked once on the door.

"What? Bobby, I swear to God, if you're coming to check on me again, I'll kill ya."

I grinned at the closed door. Dean Winchester sounded like fun. I pushed the door open, stuck my head through. "Dean?"

He sat up straighter in his bed, eyes going wide. "Uh, yeah?"

I stepped into the room, and halted. Hold the phone, Dean Winchester was a hottie! Green eyes glittered behind long eyelashes, brown hair was short and spiky. He was bare-chested, and what a nice chest it was. He smiled at me, and I felt my knees go wobbly. This man was dangerous in more ways than one.

"I'm Aislin O'Connell," I told him, walking fully into the room to offer my hand. Instead of shaking it, he grinned at me rakishly and kissed my knuckles.

"What can I do for you, Aislin?" he asked.

I refused to be swayed by those amazing good looks. Well, I tried to refuse. "You can start by giving me my hand back."

His grin only grew wider, but he released my hand. Then his eyes narrowed. "You're not a cop, are you?"

I laughed, pulled a chair over to the bed and sat down. "Do I look like a cop to you?"

He studied me, shrewd eyes taking in my appearance. "No."

"I'm a reporter," I told him.

"A reporter?"

I nodded. "Yep. I've been looking for you and Sam for three months."

He seemed speechless. He just stared at me, no doubt seeing the clothes, my flaming red hair cut short in the back and angled to the front so it framed my face, my crystalline blue eyes and easy smile and wondering just what the hell was going on.

"Uh, what do you want?"

"I want to spend a few days with you and your brother and write a story on you."

"Are you insane?"

Whatever reaction he could have had, I wasn't expecting anger. "Why would I be insane? You and your brother are topping the FBI's most wanted list, said to be delusional, psychotic, and dangerous. How about the real story?"

But Dean was glowering at me. I could practically feel the waves of fury coming off him. "Get out," he said.

I hadn't expected this. I should have, probably, but I didn't. I forced my mind back, realized that I probably should have left out the delusional, psychotic, and dangerous comment. Stupid me. "Dean, please."

"Out," he repeated.

"I just want the truth."

"The truth is I don't want you here. Now go."

I sighed, stood. "Thanks anyway," I grumbled.

Once back out in the hall, I moved on to the other brother's room. I really hoped the brothers weren't alike and I could get Sam on my side.

I knocked on his door.

"Dean, that you?"

I opened the door. "No."

"Uh, hello," he greeted. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, laptop in front of him. His eyebrows rose as he peered at me over the top of the computer. "Can I help you?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

I sighed, entered the room and closed the door. "On whether or not you're like your brother."

A grin split across his face. "Dean and I are polar opposites."

"Well, then." I plopped myself down on the end of the bed and looked at Sam. He was slighter than Dean, all long-limbed, probably taller than him, too. His hair was longer, and a shade warmer, as were his brown, puppy-dog eyes. The smile was the same, though. These Winchesters were potent men. "My name is Aislin O'Connell."

"I know."

Was it a habit of these guys to completely blindside me? It took me at least thirty seconds to make words come out of my mouth. "You… what?"

"Yeah, you were at Stanford a couple years ago doing a story on law school and alcoholism."

I had completely forgotten about that. "You went to Stanford?"

"For a short time," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"I want to ride with you and your brother for a few days and do a story on you."

"On us?"

I nodded.

Sam seemed to consider this. "Why us?"

"Well, like I told your brother, you and he are kind of on the top of the FBI's most wanted list."

He snickered. "You mean, you actually sought out two men who are considered out of their minds and murderers?"

Well, when he put it like that… "Yup."

"I think you're the crazy one."

I leaned toward him a little, dropped my voice. "Just between you and me, Sam, you and Dean seem pretty normal. Well, except for Dean's grouchiness."

He laughed. "You told all this to Dean? What did he do?"

"Kicked me out."

"Of course he did." Sam considered me for a moment. "So you want to ride with us and see what we do?"

I waited.

"You'll write the truth?"

"I always do," I said.

"Because what the FBI has on us isn't anywhere near what the truth is."

I opened my mouth to reply, but the door banged open and Dean limped into the room wild-eyed. He put me in mind of the Tazmanian Devil. "Sam!"

The ire in his voice had me nearly shrinking back.

"What?" Sam asked.

"It's not happening."

"What's not happening?"

Dean gestured to me. "This… reporter. It's not happening."

"Dean, she just wants to ride with us for a few days."

"Yeah, long enough to tell Hendrickson where we're at or get herself killed."

I stood up, and marched right up to Dean. It was hard to appear imposing, as he towered over my five-foot-five height. But I leaned in and poked him hard in the chest. "Dean Winchester, if I wanted to tell Hendrickson where you were, I could have called him the minute I found out you were here. And as for me getting myself killed, I'm quite capable of taking care of myself."

Dean outweighed me by at least 50 pounds, but I was counting on that limp. I'd kick him right in his injured leg if I had to and run like hell before Sam could get to me.

"You're pretty brave for being in a room with two murderers," he drawled.

"One murderer," I corrected. "Sam's just accessory." Not quite true, but hell, it certainly gave him pause.

Dean's eyes looked ready to bug out of his head. "You…"

"Dean…" came the warning from Sam.

I probably should have been scared, I know. But Dean was turning purple in anger and his jaw was clenched so tightly it was probably aching, and it just amused me. He wanted to blow, but just one word from Sam had him holding it all in. We stared at each other, me in curiosity (I wanted to see if his head would explode like a zit), and he just pissed off.

When I stuck my tongue out at him (mature, I know), he choked and let out the breath he'd been holding on a cough.

The anger and tension in the room seemed to dissolve just like that. Dean got his breath back and just stared at me. "I think you're the crazy one."

Well, they were definitely brothers. "Maybe. Come on, Dean. Just a few days."

Dean looked over my shoulder at his brother. Sam shrugged. "We tell her first. No surprises."

"You're no fun," the older brother complained.

"Tell me what?"

Sam gestured back to the end of the bed. "Have a seat."

I did, sitting on the end of the bed cross-legged like Sam had been. Dean eased onto the mattress, lifting his injured leg up first, and Sam sat beside him.

It was a united front, I realized. The two brothers sitting side-by-side at the head of the bed. It was then I saw that they were truly brothers. They didn't really look alike, except for that killer smile, but the way they unconsciously leaned toward each other, supportive, anyone could see they were close.

"What exactly do you know about us?" Sam asked me.

"Just what I read in the file," I told him.

"You saw the file?"

I turned to Dean. "You think I went into this completely blind? God, Dean, I'm a little nuts but I'm not stupid."

"How?"

"Hendrickson was staying in a Holiday Inn in D.C. I have contacts. I broke in, copied the file and left before anyone knew."

The two men looked at each other, then turned back to me. "You have our file?" they asked simultaneously. I laughed, reached into my backpack and pulled out a thick manila envelope. I handed it over to them.

"Your mug shots from Arkansas are in there, all the reports from Hendrickson. You guys definitely have been staying a step ahead of him."

Dean grinned in glee as he paged through the papers. "Dude, he has no idea that we have the Impala."

"That's yours?"

He glanced up at me, saw what must have been a soft, melty glaze in my eyes (at least, that's how I felt about that car) and nodded. "You like that?"

"How could anyone not like a '67 Impala in that great of condition?"

"I rebuilt her myself."

"V6 or V8?"

"V6, but man, she purrs."

I laughed. "I think a car like that growls rather than purrs."

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, but it's such a sweet sound."

Sam caught my eye, shook his head. "He'll never shut up about that car now."

"It's a sexy car," I admitted. "Most guys talk about sexy things if they own them."

"Ha!" Dean said to Sam.

"Anyway." I drug their attention back to me. "What are we supposed to be talking about here?"

"Dean!" Sam sounded indignant.

"Hm?"

Sam stared at him. "They did psych profiles on us both."

"Psych profiles? Let me see that." Dean tore the folder from Sam's hands, opened it. "Older brother fiercely protective of younger brother, manipulates to the point of sharing hallucinations. No conscience, extremely dangerous, pathological liar, kills without remorse or guilt, going so far as to say victims are demons or ghosts. Obsession with grave desecration. No religious ideals known." He sneered. "Jesus Christ!"

Sam grinned. "No religious ideals, eh? Let's see mine. Younger brother terrified of older brother, will not defy. Idolizes older brother, but lacks backbone? That's not even close!"

"That's bullshit," Dean said. "If you idolized me, we'd be in some serious trouble."

"Dean, they have you as the mastermind behind it all!"

"So?" Dean closed the file, handed it back to me. "At least they got something right."

Sam seemed to want to say something else, but turned to me, instead. "You want to hang out with us for a few days, this is something you'll have to put up with. We drive, we fight each other, we fight the bad stuff, we fight each other more."

"So what you're telling me is that you're brothers," I said.

Dean grinned. "Exactly. See, Sammy, she's got it figured out."

"Okay, guys. Why don't you just tell me what it is you have to tell me so we can get it out of the way." I was getting nervous. It was apparent to me that they were stalling. Considering all I'd read in that file, I really didn't think there was anything worse they could tell me.

But I have been known to be wrong on occasion.

Dean's smile faded and he suddenly looked mysterious, brooding. It was even sexier than the grin. "Sam."

Sam nodded, took the lead. "All that stuff in the file about demons and ghosts? It's not hallucinations. It's what we do. We're hunters. You see, when I was just baby, and Dean was four, a demon killed our mom. Our dad spent the rest of his life hunting that demon down. He raised us on the road, in motel rooms, teaching us everything he could about the life. Eventually, I decided I didn't want to spend my life hunting ghosts and demons, and I went to Stanford. The problem is that not too long after I started there, Dad went missing and Dean came after me to help him find him." Sam fell silent, glanced at Dean.

"It's in our blood," Dean said quietly. "We can't outrun it."

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean's lack of input. "I had a girlfriend, a great girl named Jessica. The demon, the same one that took our mother, got her, too. We finally caught up with the demon not too long ago. We were in a car accident and all three of us landed in the hospital. Dean was in a coma. Our dad gave his soul to the demon to bring him back. Since then, it's just been the two of us searching for that son of a bitch."

When I listened to their story, all theories that I'd had about the Winchester brothers went straight down the toilet. Because it didn't matter how crazy it sounded, there was real heartbreak there, real sorrow, real grief. Above and beyond that, though, there was love, loyalty and a sense of what was right.

I listened to them, and I believed them.

And perhaps I fell a little in love with both of them right then.

I mean, come on, what girl wouldn't, right?


	2. Water troughs are not for bathing

**A/N: Forgot about a disclaimer, so I'll put in now. Though I'm using them purely for my own sick enjoyment, I don't own the Winchesters or Supernatural (so jealous of that Kripke guy!). Enjoy chapter two!**

**A/N part 2: Thanks for the reviews! I appreciate it! And so you all know, this fic is finished, so updates will be whenever I get a chance to do so.**

**Chapter Two: Water Troughs Are Not For Bathing**

I was fading in and out of consciousness. The bleeding from the gash on my shoulder had finally slowed, but I knew I'd lost a good deal of blood. I only hoped that Sam and Dean were actually looking for me. Because if they were dead, I was soon to be next.

Leaning back against the wall, I rested my head against the cold stone. It was soothing on my forehead, easing the pain a little from the bump. I had no idea how long I'd been there, but I had a feeling that my time was running out quickly.

I closed my eyes, let the dizziness wash over me and let my memories flare up again.

After the brothers' explanation of why they did what they did, we spent that night at Bobby's. Dean's leg was still banged up, a result of, I learned, a particularly nasty ghost that threw him across a room before Sam had managed to set the bones on fire.

I was told that ghosts, nasty spirits, were usually attached to their own bodies. And the only way to get rid of them for good was to find their bodies, salt their bones and burn them. This was where the grave desecration charge came from.

Bobby went out and got a bucket of fried chicken for dinner, and the four of us sat around his table, chatting and eating and drinking beer.

I enjoyed the camaraderie. My job didn't really give me the chance to hang out with people on a regular basis. As such, between that and all the traveling, I didn't actually have any friends or anyone I was close to. I had no family, at least none that I knew of.

It was a welcome change.

"So, Aislin," Bobby said. "What made you decide to do a story on Sam and Dean?"

I took a pull of my beer before responding. "Well, I wanted a story that would really help give me an in with some major news stations. When I did some research and found out about you being on the wanted list, I was interested. So I called some contacts, found out where Hendrickson was, and stole your file from him. When I read it, I laughed hysterically. Demons and ghosts aside, I didn't think anything in there pointed to stone-cold killers. So I decided to see if I could find you."

"And exactly how did you find us?" Sam asked.

I opted for the enigmatic smile. "A good reporter doesn't reveal her sources."

Dean snorted. "You'll tell us or pay."

"Excuse me?"

"Are there any cases, Bobby?" Dean asked, effectively changing the subject from that threat. At least, I considered it a threat. Perhaps not a threat on my life, but a threat nonetheless.

"Dean, you're leg…"

"Is fine," he interrupted. "What do you have for us?"

"Well, Ash called and said he found something on the internet about a monk in Texas."

"A monk?" Sam paused with his beer halfway to his lips. "Since when are monks evil?"

"This one was apparently burned at the stake over a hundred years ago. They tried to refurbish the church, people started dying."

"Burned at the stake for what?" Dean asked.

"According to what Ash found, he was into satanic rituals instead of holy ones."

The brothers glanced at each other, a look more full of meaning than I thought possible. Though, being that I was in the presence of three men who hunted demons and ghosts as their jobs, I suppose thinking telepathy didn't exist was rather naïve.

"Guess we need to put our painting faces on," Dean quipped.

"Ah, not the painting," Sam complained.

"What? Chicks dig artists."

I snorted into my beer and said nothing.

"Don't be laughing, there, little miss reporter," Dean said. "If you're riding with us, you're helping."

I glared at him across the table. "I won't do all the work, so don't even think about trying to make me."

"Never crossed my mind," he mumbled.

"I'm sure."

Having practically memorized their FBI file, I felt I knew Dean and Sam fairly well. Even though the FBI got a lot of things wrong, they also got a lot of things right. For instance, Dean was truly a hard man. Raised by his father to be a hunter - a soldier, really - in the fight against evil, he had little patience for the ignorance of the majority of people. If he told you that you were a target for a demon and you didn't believe him, he wasn't going to bend over backwards to convince you. He was also cynical of things that were good. If you saw an angel or witnessed a miracle, it was a demon manipulating you. Dean had seen far too much of the evil in the world to put any real faith in the good. He was prone to drinking, casual sex, and running headlong into dangerous situations because he found it fun.

Sam, on the other hand, having left his demon-obsessed father and soldier brother to go away to school, had a much more _normal_ grip on the world. He was caring, sympathetic, what Dean would term wussy. But he wasn't innocent. He'd seen his fair share of the evil, and though he was more apt to believe in the good, he also wasn't afraid to pick up a gun and start shooting. He was the brother who had long-term relationships, and took care of Dean when he was drunk and stupid.

In a way, they were almost a good cop/bad cop team, but the bad cop, Dean, was also the most fiercely protective of the two. It was he who would confront the ghosts while Sam burned the bones. It was he who usually ended up with stitches or being hospitalized.

And in more ways than I was actually comfortable with, Dean Winchester and I were a lot alike.

Having grown up in multiple foster homes since I was a child, I wasn't one to get too close to people. It was much easier to maintain a distance, that way when they or I left, it didn't hurt as much. A guy that I once dated for a while called me cold, and maybe I was, but it was a better feeling than disappointment and heartbreak. As far as I was concerned, it was human nature for people to hurt other people, whether it be physically or mentally. And if I was a bitter woman in my late 20s, it was really no wonder. I didn't lament my lack of a childhood, and to me, it seemed Dean didn't, either.

It was easy to figure out that we'd be butting heads a lot on this trip.

That night, perhaps because of being in a new place, perhaps for other reasons, I had the nightmare I used to have all through my childhood.

In it, I was five years old again, hiding under my parents' bed, watching while men forced their way into the room and gunned them both down. My mom fell right at the foot of the bed, and I don't know how I didn't scream as her lifeless eyes stared at me, as blood seeped out of a hold in the center of her forehead.

I woke up with the scream already dying on my lips. The door burst open and Dean bounded in, pain in his leg apparently forgotten.

"Aislin, you all right?"

I dragged in a breath, but my lungs hitched and an unwanted sob burst out. Dean was sitting on the bed before I knew it, hauling me into his arms. I clung to him, all the while inwardly cursing myself. I wasn't this weak, damn it. I'd long ago forced the memory of my parents' deaths from my mind. It wasn't conducive to my mental health, and there hadn't been anything I could have done about it.

Who needed therapy when you had plain denial?

Instead of doing what I usually did, which was to put on a brave face and pretend like nothing happened, I simply let Dean hold me until the sobs died away and I could breathe again.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Nightmare. A memory, actually. One I haven't thought of in a long time."

"What was it?"

I sighed, knowing full well that he'd never let me alone until I told him. He was stubborn.

"When I was five, my parents were executed by the Irish mob. My father had dealings with them, and some things went wrong. So they broke into our house one night and killed them. I saw the whole thing."

"How?"

I shook my head, trying to detach myself from the memory, letting it play like a scene from a horror movie in my head instead of the memory it was. "When they broke in, it woke me up. I ran to my parents' room and they told me to hide under the bed. Whatever I did, I wasn't supposed to make a noise. I watched them come in, dressed all in black, and shoot them both in the head."

"Jesus," he breathed.

"The worst part was that I stayed under that bed, staring into my mom's eyes until someone showed up the next morning because she hadn't shown up for work."

He looked stricken, rubbed my shoulders.

I pulled away from him, wiped the tears off my cheeks. "It was a long time ago."

"I still dream about the night my mom died," he confessed.

And that led to a seriously awkward moment. We stared at each other, uncomfortable in our admissions. "Well, I'm fine, now," I said by way of dismissal. "Thanks for checking on me."

He cleared his throat. "Yeah. I'll see you in the a.m."

As I laid back down, it occurred to me that Dean and I had another thing in common. Neither one of us were comfortable expressing emotion.

And wow, we'd just had a moment.

Best not to mention it ever again.

When I woke the next morning, all I wanted was a shower and cup of coffee. Of course, Dean was in the bathroom, so I commenced pounding on the door.

"Dean, for Christ's sake, you don't even have any hair. What in the hell are you doing in there?"

"Jacking off!" came the answer.

"Yeah, sure. You'd have been done ten minutes ago!"

I heard a snicker and turned to see Sam walking past me down the hall. "Any luck?" he asked. When I shook my head, he grinned wider. "He'll be in there for at least another ten minutes."

"Not if I can help it." I knelt before the door, noticed there was no bolt lock. So I snagged the lock pick kit I carried on me at all times and went to picking the lock on the door.

Sam started laughing, leaned against the wall and folded his arms over his chest. "This I have to see."

"Yeah, me too," I quipped. "What's your bet?"

"Sitting on the pot."

"Nah, I think he's admiring himself in the mirror, making pouty faces like a model." When the door clicked quietly, I stood, turned the knob, and threw it open.

Dean jumped, spinning around. "What the -? You crazy bitch!"

I burst out laughing. Dean was standing before the mirror, jeans on but no shirt, and it was obvious he'd just been in the middle of flexing his muscles.

I couldn't stop laughing. I sank to my knees, wrapping both arms around my stomach. Dean stepped over to me, gazed down with fire in his eyes. There were tears streaming down my face I was laughing so hard. He bent down, bringing his face level with mine. "Just so you know," he said, his voice low, warning, "I will get you back for that, and you'll never see it coming."

"Bring it on, muscle man."

Sam laughed, shook his head, and walked away.

"You're going to drive me to the edge of sanity, aren't you?"

I jumped to my feet, patted Dean on the shoulder. "Probably. But hey, it'll be a lot of fun." Then I swept past him and into the bathroom.

We were on the road by 10:00, cruising down the highway in the Impala, music blaring. I was comfortable in the backseat, stretched out, notebook in hand, taking notes.

I didn't know what awaited me in Texas, but I was excited to find out. And hell, if I was being honest, I liked the Winchester boys. They were as normal as demon-hunting brothers could be. As apart as they were in personality and looks, anyone would be blind not to see the way they communicated silently, shared an inside joke, and the basic brotherly love between the two.

It'd be an interesting trip, regardless of the evil monk.

By noon, Dean was complaining he was hungry, and vowed we were stopping somewhere for food. Sam pointed out that he was always hungry, and they needed to cover more miles. The end result was an argument, which Dean won, pulling his "It's my car, I'm driving, and I'm stopping for food" card.

To compromise, we hit a drive-thru.

The weather was beautiful, and with the windows open and the radio blasting '80s hair band music, I was actually having the time of my life. One day with them, and already I was becoming too attached.

So why did I not care this time?

We stopped at a diner for supper, and I simply marveled at the amount of food Dean consumed. He was like a human garbage disposal, packing away two burgers with extra onions, a mountain of French fries smothered in cheese and bacon, and then two piece of apple pie without even pausing to burp. Worse, he'd finished his meal and pie before I had even thought about ordering dessert. I eyed his trim, athletic shape, and inwardly raged. It took me running five miles every day, plus yoga, to keep my healthy body in shape, and I had to sit there and watch a man plow through a mountain of food that would have had me puking after the second burger. Frankly, I was disgusted, and not a little envious.

They elected to drive through the night, and Dean, in a rare moment I learned, acquiesced to Sam's request to drive for a while so Dean could get some sleep.

In the dark in the back of the car, with the road moving smoothly beneath me, I leaned my head against the window and drifted off to sleep.

Only to be rudely jarred awake what seemed like moments later with a stunningly loud rendition of "Carry On Wayward Son." Sam was rolling his eyes and shaking his head in the driver seat while Dean belted out Kansas and played air drums.

I knew it was useless to complain, so I instead raised my own voice over his and sang along.

When I was growing up, whatever school I happened to be in at the time always wanted me to do something extracurricular. I'd always chosen choir because it was the least hassle. It just turned out I was a decent singer. I grinned as Dean spun around in the front seat, staring at me like I'd grown two heads.

"You gonna let me sleep now?" I asked.

He faced front and slouched moodily in his seat. Sam reached out and turned the radio down to mere background noise, and all was quiet again.

I once again drifted off, glad for dreams of a two-headed dog singing Kansas instead of the horrible nightmare from the night before.

Dean was still asleep when I woke up, his head lolling against the headrest, open window blowing refreshingly cool air in his face.

I scooted forward, braced my arms on the back of the seats. "Where are we, Sam?"

"We're close. Almost to the Texas border. Wake up, Dean."

Dean sat upright, blinking and rubbing his hand over his face. "What's for breakfast?" he asked.

"How do you do it?" I demanded.

"Do what?" he asked.

"Eat like goddamn bear and not weigh 400 pounds!"

He grinned like the Cheshire Cat and didn't answer.

I flopped back, in the middle of the bench seat, and stared out at the southwest scenery. Only moments later, Dean let out a yell.

"What the -?"

I felt something hit me in the chest. As I looked down, a very large, very ugly bug looked back at me.

Give me snakes, give me rats, give me a freakin' 20 foot long boa constrictor, but bugs I didn't do. Okay, so I had my vices. I screamed bloody murder and reacted the only way my terrified mind knew how. I turned into a spoiled child who didn't get his way. I threw a tantrum.

Sam nearly ran off the road as I thrashed around in the backseat. The bug fell off me, landed on the seat, and I swear it began crawling toward me. I screamed again, lunged into the front seat, right over the middle and in between the two brothers. Sam finally got the car stopped and I kneed Dean in the side trying to get out the door.

"Aislin! Relax! It's not real!"

Dean's words didn't register, as I was so horrified I crawled out the open window, landing in a heap on the ground. As I jumped to my feet, Dean swung the door open, stepped out, holding the bug in his hand.

"It's fake."

I stopped freaking out, stared at him. "You did that on purpose?"

"Revenge."

My anger boiled over. I swung at him as hard I could, catching him right in the jaw. He staggered back, dropping the plastic bug.

"You son of a bitch!" I yelled. I lunged at him again, but Sam, who I hadn't even seen get out of the car, caught me around the waist, lifting me bodily off the ground. I kicked and clawed, trying to get free. I was going to kill him, I really was, if only I could get loose.

"Sam, let me go!"

"Not until you calm down."

I struggled, but his hold was tight and unyielding. "I'm going to kill him, let me go."

Dean was leaning against the Impala, one hand holding his jaw, and laughing. The prick was actually _laughing_ at me! I growled low in my throat, struggled even harder against Sam.

"Dean, stop being a jerk," he chastised. I could feel his hold slipping, so I kept fighting.

What happened next occurred so fast it actually took my breath away. I slipped out of Sam's hold, lunged at Dean. One moment he was leaning against the car, the next he'd pushed away, grabbed me right out of the air and slung me over his shoulder.

In the few seconds it took me to come to grips with what he'd just done, he'd stomped off the road and dropped me over a fence into a water trough.

I surfaced, spitting stale water and cursing enough to make a sailor blush.

"Are you going to calm down?" he asked.

"Go to hell!" Not very original, I know, but I was pissed.

He simply shook his head, ducked under the fence and came up beside the water trough. "It was a joke, why you are so bent out of shape?"

I opted to glare at him instead of answering. How could he know my irrational fear of bugs? Okay, so not really irrational. They were creepy, and crawly, and… ugh. I wasn't afraid of anything, except bugs. The bigger the bug, the more I freaked. And okay, so it wasn't a shining moment when I was confronted with one. I sighed. He didn't know, and I suppose it wasn't fair of me to get mad at him over it.

"You want to help me out of here?" I asked.

He looked suspicious, but offered his hand. I wasn't dumb enough to think I could actually pull him into the trough, so I simply allowed him to pull me out. I was standing on the ground, dripping wet, when Sam finally approached us.

"Everything okay now?"

I turned, grabbed the front of Dean's shirt and used it dry off my face. "Hey!" he protested.

"Oh, come on, Dean, hug and make up?"

He backed away. "Forget it. I don't know where that water's been."

I ran after him, launched myself into him and hugged him as hard as I could. For a moment all I heard was Dean's grunting against my onslaught and Sam's laughter.

"Man, you got me all wet," he complained, finally detaching himself.

"And you deserved it."

"Guys, I hate to break up the party, but we need to get a move on. We're only twenty miles from the mission."

Grudgingly, Dean and I made our way back to the Impala. As he flat-out refused to let either one of us sit in the car in wet clothes, I grabbed my bag and moved off behind a tree to change into dry jeans and a shirt. The only pair of shoes I had with me, my boots, were still wet, so I had to suffer through sloshing around with soaked feet.

Once we were back on the road, Dean at the wheel and me quite comfortable in the backseat, Sam opened his laptop and began reading the information he'd found on the evil monk.

"It says here he performed 15 human sacrifices when he was alive, all young women. When people finally realized what was going on, they burned him at the stake for witchcraft."

"So then what do we need to look for?" Dean asked. "What could he be attached to?"

Sam shrugged. "I'm not sure. It could be anything. Maybe the dagger he used to kill the women, maybe something else. We'll need the EMF detectors for this."

"They're in the trunk."

"So," I leaned up so I could hear them better, "why has he shown up now, suddenly, after all these years?"

"Spirits tend to become more active when their surroundings change," Sam explained. "Because they started renovating the mission, this monk is pretty pissed about it."

"And because he was burned at the stake, he must be attached to something else?"

"Yeah," Dean spoke up. "It could be anything, so we use EMF detectors to see if anything gives off an electromagnetic field."

"So there really is a method to your madness."

Dean smirked. "Sometimes." He reached into the glove compartment, pulled out a hunting knife, handed it to me. "You might need that."

I took the knife and just stared at him. "What in the hell do I need a hunting knife for if we're after a spirit?"

"Iron is a good way to make spirits disappear for a short time," Sam explained.

"And there's no way in hell I'm giving you a gun," Dean added.

"So you'll give me a knife?" I shook my head. "You know, Dean, I'm not 10. And I have shot a gun before."

He looked at me through the rearview mirror. "Oh, really?"

"Yes, really. I went through the police academy."

"Then why aren't you a cop?"

I met his gaze squarely. "Because I hate cops."

Sam snorted, then dissolved into laughter.

"Why would you go the academy if you hate cops?" Dean asked.

"Well, Jesus, I didn't hate them then. It wasn't until we were close to graduation that I… that some… things happened."

"What things?"

I sat back in the seat, stared out the window. "Just some things. I don't want to talk about it." No way was I going to sit there and justify my actions to Dean Winchester, the "shoot first ask questions later" smartass. It wasn't any of his business, honestly.

So why did I actually want to tell him?

I shook the idea off and fell silent. Dean and Sam exchanged a look, one that I did not miss, and Dean turned the radio on.

We arrived at the mission about half an hour later. The guys armed themselves with whatever they felt they needed from the trunk of the Impala. I had the hunting knife tucked into the back of my jeans. As long as I didn't sit, it was comfortable.

"Let's go get jobs," Dean said with a grin.


	3. Landing on chairs is not good

**Disclaimer: As per the previous chapter, I don't own them, but if I did, I'd keep them locked in my bedroom... for my own ends. (grins wickedly)**

**A/N: Once again, a big thank you for the reviews, and all those who've put this fic on their alerts list and/or favorites. Makes me feel good to know people are enjoying this. I felt like updating, so yeah, here ya go. Long chapter. And there's only two left after this! Gasp! No! Enjoy!**

**Chapter Three: Landing On Chairs is Not Good**

The three of us went into the small trailer on the property that served as an office. Inside was a woman, probably mid-40s, sitting at a desk and looking so frazzled I was surprised the sound of the door slamming didn't make her jump.

She did look up, however. "Can I help you?" she asked. I glimpsed a glimmer of hope in her eyes and moved forward before Dean or Sam could react.

"We heard you're in need of some help," I said with an encouraging smile. "We're road-tripping around the country and ran into some cash problems." I winced. "The two boneheads behind me gambled it away in Vegas."

She smiled at my remark, then sobered. "You three aren't afraid of ghosts, are you?"

"Ghosts? Why would we be afraid of ghosts?"

She nodded toward the mission. "I've had so many people quit it's making my head spin. There's all this talk of the place being haunted, all over a few accidents."

"What kind of accidents?" Sam asked.

The woman sighed. "Stupid things. A chandelier that was being put up fell and killed someone. Another guy got badly electrocuted rewiring the place. He insists the breakers were off." She shrugged. "It's not good for business and it's driving me mad. They just won't listen to me when I say there's no such thing." She turned back to me. "People are a little superstitious in these parts."

"I'm from Pennsylvania," I told her. "I know all about superstitious people."

She shared my smile. "Great. You three can get started right away. Head on in and look for Richard, he's my contractor. He'll get you set up with some overalls and jobs."

"Thanks so much."

Once outside, I got a sharp elbow in the ribs from Dean. "Ow! What the hell's wrong with you?"

"Me? What's with taking over in there?"

I turned to face him, making him stop. "Dean, the woman was on her last nerve. She needed someone to relate to her a little. Your charming act would have pushed over the edge."

"She's got a point," said Sam.

"Shut up, Sammy."

Once we found Richard, got overalls and were assigned jobs, we scoped the place out a little. It was a small mission that the woman, whose name I found out from Richard was Deanna Landry, was turning it into a Mexican cuisine restaurant. Although old, the wood seemed sturdy. What needed to be done was all the pews needed torn out and the place painted. Not a huge job, but with people quitting left and right, it would take a while.

Dean and Sam were immediately put on heavy lifting details, being strapping young men. I was handed a roller and a paint tray and directed to the second floor.

I was happily painting when Dean came by. He wore his overalls, but the top was undone, with the sleeves tied around his waist. He had on a black tee-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I had to take a moment to appreciate his well-defined arms.

"What are you doing?" he asked me.

"Painting, what's it look like?"

He eyed the wall, and then my paint-splattered clothes. "It looks you're making a mess."

"Dean, I swear to God, I'm gonna kick your ass."

He laughed. "Sammy and I are working on getting some stories out of the other men. You should try to do the same."

"I thought I was just supposed to be along for the ride," I commented, turning back to my wall and resuming my painting.

I didn't see it, but I tell you, I could actually feel his smirk. "You ride along, you work."

When his hand closed over mine, I nearly jumped out of my skin. "Like this, in a W pattern." He guided my hand on the roller.

"Thanks," I mumbled. His hand was warm, strong… no, I would not let myself get too involved in these two. I was there for a story, and a story was what I was going to get.

Dean leaned toward me, his lips close to my ear. "Be careful," he murmured. "From what we've been hearing, this guy goes after chicks."

I nodded, unable to actually say anything. It seemed I swallowed a lump that got stuck in my throat. Once he'd gone, I was able to breathe normally again. Damn rugged, good-looking men. I reached up and rubbed my ear absently. I'd have to keep my libido in check around Dean Winchester.

A few hours later, I had nearly one wall done. I'd seen a few people on the second floor, but no other painters. I bent down to put more paint on my roller when all the hair stood up on the back of my neck. I shivered and spun around.

And there it was, a monk standing in front of me, with a frighteningly evil face and long claw-like fingernails. He was wearing the brown robes of his time, but where there should have been a cross necklace, it was an inverted pentagram.

"Heathen woman," it said. The sound was like fingernails running across a chalkboard, it shot through me, made me shiver again. I backed up, right into the wall with fresh paint on it.

He moved closer… no, he _floated_ closer, grinning at me with black teeth. "I've got a special place for you," it hissed.

Belatedly, I remembered the knife still resting against the small of my back. I reached back and grabbed it, unsheathed it and dropped the leather covering on the floor. The spirit moved closer still, and all I could feel was cold.

I was shivering uncontrollably, and I tightened my grip on the knife so I didn't drop it.

"Oh yes, a very special place for you." It raised its hand and I lashed out with the knife.

I missed. It hissed and swooped at me with its hands. The pain when the claws bit into my face had me crying out. The strength of that hit lifted me off my feet and sent me flying across the room. I landed in a pile of chairs, making a terrible noise and yelling out again. Confronted with the pain, I dropped the knife on the floor.

The monk was suddenly right in front of me, and it was laughing. This is it, I thought, I was dead. All I wanted was a story, and instead they'd be writing an obituary on me in whatever pathetic Texas newspaper was around the area.

"Aislin!"

The sound of Dean's voice snapped me out of my reverie. The monk didn't seem to notice his yell, was instead reaching toward me…

And then it was gone, replaced by Dean. I saw the flash of a blade from a switchblade that disappeared into his pocket, then his hands on my arms as he pulled me out of the cluster of chairs.

"You okay?" he asked.

I cringed at the contact, managed a nod. "Yeah, I'm good."

"You're bleeding."

I reached up, touched my cheek, and my hand came away slick with blood. "The bastard got me pretty good."

"I'll say. You need stitches."

"Great."

He hefted me to my feet and I leaned on him as he guided me down the stairs. Sam met us at the bottom. "You all right?"

I managed a nod for him. "Still alive," I said. "That counts for something, right?"

"I'm taking her to the hospital to get patched up, we'll be back."

The word hospital had me drawing up short. No way, nuh-uh, ain't gonna happen.

"What?"

"No hospital."

"Aislin, you need stitches."

"Dean, I'm not going to the hospital. You can get in the first aid kit in the car and put those stupid little butterfly tape things on my face. But there's no way you're getting me in one of those fucking places unless I'm unconscious."

The brothers looked at each other, Sam offering a shrug.

Dean's face hardened. "Fine. Let's get you cleaned up before Deanna finds out."

I jumped, hissed when the antiseptic ointment touched the scratches on my face. "God damn it, Dean!" I complained. "That stuff stings!"

"Better a little sting than an infection later," he said. "Hold still, will ya?"

I did, as patiently as I could while he administered to the wounds. They weren't as bad as he'd thought, and even if I had gone to the hospital (no way in hell), I wouldn't have needed stitches.

"All right. Let me get the butterfly things on, and you'll be good to go."

I was actually in awe at how gentle Dean was when it came to tending wounds. I'd wager a guess that with having to take care of his brother all his life, it came naturally.

"Now," he said when he'd finished, "why the hell didn't you use the knife?"

"I tried," I told him. "I missed."

"You missed."

Dean's face was like granite, his jaw clenched, his voice calm, like steel. It wasn't that he was angry, I decided, he was concerned.

"It's not like this is something I encounter every day like you and Sam," I said, standing where I'd been leaning and making to walk around him. His arms came out, hands resting on the Impala, effectively caging me in.

"You need to be more careful," he demanded. "Stay on your guard at all times, or you will be going to the hospital unconscious."

"Dean, I understand."

"Do you?" He leaned closer, face inches from mine. He was close I could see the gold flecks in the green of his eyes. "Do you really understand that I can't be there to protect you all the time, and neither can Sammy?"

That irritated me. "I don't need your protection, Dean," I said stiffly.

"No? Then what were you going to do up there, huh? Just stare at that thing while it killed you?"

Okay, so maybe he was a little angry. I reached up to push him away, but he didn't budge. "All right, I screwed up. Are you happy?"

"No!" he yelled. "This is why I didn't want to bring you along. You're going to end up dead."

When pushing on his chest didn't make him move, I clocked him in the side of the head. It was enough to make him back away so I could stand. "You're a real prick," I told him, and began walking away.

I didn't get far when he grabbed my arm, right on a bruise from when I'd hit the chairs. It was instinctive for me to cry out, causing him to gentle his grip.

"Sorry."

"Forget about it."

"I can't forget about it, Aislin. I don't want to see you get hurt."

Dean Winchester bugged me like no one ever had. "Dean, you cannot protect everyone in the world. What happened up there was my fault, I know. Now that I know what to expect, I'll be prepared if it happens again."

"It won't."

"You can't know that. I'm a girl, he'll come after me again."

"No, you're not going back there in."

"God! Stow the macho crap!" I yelled. "This is the 21st century, and I told you before I could take care of myself. Now, I appreciate your help, I do. But don't talk to me like I'm a child!"

We stared at each other, each of our stubborn wills at war. Finally he sighed. "All right. Fine. Let me see your arm."

I hesitated for a moment longer, then unzipped my overalls and showed him my arm.

"Ouch." The bruise was ugly, black already. "Any others?"

I sighed, turned around and lifted my shirt.

I heard his sharp intake of breath. "Jesus," he whispered. I guessed my back was probably littered with bruises, as that's where I'd hit the chairs the hardest. "Are you sure you're all right?" he asked again.

Lowering my shirt and turning back around, I smiled at him. "I'm probably going to be sore as hell tomorrow. But yeah, Dean, I'm okay."

"All right. Let's get back to work, huh?"

Strangely enough, the monk didn't make another appearance that day. We left the mission around 7:00, found a motel a block away. We rented two rooms, one for me, the other for Sam and Dean.

Once inside the room, I climbed into the shower and washed away the paint, the blood, the weariness of putting in a day's labor, with the added acrobatics across the room into a pile of chairs.

The hot water felt amazing running down my back. My muscles relaxed a little, but they were still incredibly tense. Once I felt clean and lethargic enough, I put on my favorite pjs and eased myself onto the bed. The bruises on my back protested, but I managed to get myself comfortable enough.

I had just turned on the ancient television and found a late night comedy show to watch when there was a knock on the door.

"Who is it?" I yelled.

"Us," came Dean's voice.

"It's open."

The door swung open and Dean and Sam came into the room carrying two pizza boxes and a two six packs of beer. I could have kissed them both.

"We figured you wouldn't want to go anywhere for food," Sam explained, "so we brought the food to you."

"I think I love you guys," I told him.

He laughed, handed me a paper plate with two pieces of pizza on it and a beer. They settled themselves on the bed, Dean beside me and Sam at the end.

It was a companionable dinner. We laughed at the show on the television, Dean and Sam argued good-naturedly about stand-up comedy, and I just sat back and enjoyed it.

Two hours later, they both exchanged a look.

"What's up?" I asked. I knew that look. It was the should-we-tell-her-now-or-tell-her-later look. After a couple of days, I could read these two like books.

Dean turned to me. "We have a working theory about our monk."

"See, as we were asking questions today, it became abundantly clear that there are people who aren't happy with Deanna renovating the mission," Sam explained.

Dean took a bite of pizza (I swear it was his sixth piece) and spoke around the mass of dough, cheese, and sauce in his mouth. "It's looking more and more like this monk was conjured by someone."

"Conjured? You mean someone actually called that thing to attack people at the mission?"

Sam nodded. "It's not unheard of. We've been on a few cases where people thought it was a good idea to call forth something nasty."

"So then what's your plan?"

"We need to find the person responsible," Dean said. "If it was conjured, then it's not attached to anything at the mission. And when I did some EMF readings today, all I found were a few spikes upstairs where it came after you. We need to find the moron to get rid of the monk."

"Which means what?"

"More questions," Sam said. "We gotta start doing some research on the people that are pissed Deanna's renovating that mission."

I stared at them. "It's a historical monument. Probably half the town is pissed."

"Exactly."

"Good grief," I muttered. "So much for a cut-and-dry case."

"They rarely are," Sam admitted.

After the guys had left, I laid down and closed my eyes. I was exhausted, sore, and ready to confront the bastard that had conjured the monk. A person I could hit, and I really wanted to hit whoever had done it.

I must have fallen asleep, because when I next opened my eyes, the room was pitch black, and there was someone beside the bed. After just a moment of absolute terror, I grabbed the knife I had fallen asleep with, brandished it. "Who the hell's there?"

"Shh, it's just me."

"God, Dean, what the hell? You scared me half to death."

There was a muffled click and soft light poured from a lamp on the beside table. He was seated in a chair beside the bed, his hair sticking up as though he were running his hand through it repeatedly.

"What are doing here?" I asked him.

"I was checking up on you and saw that you had left the lights on, the tv on, and the door unlocked."

I grimaced. "I had a little problem getting up to lock the door."

He leaned toward me, resting his elbows on his knees. "You okay?"

I wasn't, and what irked me was that he knew it. My back muscles just wouldn't relax. They were so tense it felt like I was laying on a wood plank. "I can't seem to move," I mumbled.

"Your back muscles probably seized up." He rose, bent over me.

"What are you doing?"

"Turning you over so I can massage your back."

"What?" I just stared at him. Dean Winchester, the badass brother, was going to massage my back? "Am I dead?" I asked him.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Who are you and what have you done with Dean?"

He stood fully, glared down at me. "I'm not a complete jerk all the time," he argued.

"Really? Because I seem to recall you throwing me into a nasty water trough early today."

"That was just messing around."

"And this?"

He huffed, bent down again and hook one arm under my knees and the other around my shoulders and flipped me over. I grunted at the movement, but I was lying on my stomach. "You're in pain," he said simply. "I can help."

Dean Winchester, saving the world one annoyed woman at a time. The thought amused me, and I tried to voice it, but my face was smashed into the pillow and all it came out as was mumbling.

When his hands grabbed the hem of my shirt and started to lift it, I jerked and tried to struggle.

"Relax, Aislin, will ya? I need to see your back."

It hurt trying to struggle, so I stilled.

"You look like you have the reverse Michael Jackson skin disease," he said. "You're turning black."

"Very funny," I managed.

His warm hands gripped my shoulders first, and lightly massaged. Though the bruises hurt, it felt far better on my muscles than it hurt on the bruises. He worked his way down my back, taking great care over the sorest spot - I imagined it was probably the blackest bruise - before moving back up to my shoulders.

I lost track of how long he rubbed my back, but eventually I felt a lot like a puddle of melted butter. A moan slipped out before I could stop it, and Dean's answering chuckle was embarrassing.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

"You have great hands," I blurted. "Oh, shut up."

He was laughing now. I felt the mattress dip as he sat on the edge. "Since you're okay, I guess I'll head back to mine and Sammy's room."

"What were you doing here?" I asked, easing my arms under me and rolling back over to look at him.

His eyes went wide, and I realized too late that my shirt was still lifted, up around my neck. I hastily pulled it down, felt my face grow hot. "Dammit," I muttered.

Dean seemed to be in a state of shock. His mouth had actually fallen open.

"Dean, they're boobs, we all have them."

He just nodded.

"Oh!" I swung out, smacked him in the arm. "Snap out of it, you perv."

"Sorry."

I pulled the covers up to my chin, glowered at him. "I'm okay now, you can go." Why was he just sitting there?

"Look, Aislin, I'm uh -"

"Don't you dare try to apologize for what happened today," I snarled. "It wasn't your fault, so don't even think it. I knew what could happen, and I reacted too slowly. And don't apologize for yelling at me, because I'm sure it'll happen again before this hunt is over."

"You're a reporter," he said. "You have no business being on a freakin' hunt for a sadistic monk."

"But we're not looking for a monk," I pointed out. "We're looking for a flesh and blood man or woman with an obsession in the occult."

"Still, maybe you shouldn't go to the mission tomorrow."

My pain forgotten, I shoved back the covers and rose to my feet. "Dean Winchester, you're a son of a bitch," I accused. "Go back to your room. I'll see you tomorrow."

He rose, as well, but instead of just leaving, he stepped up to me, staring down at me with that hard look. "I won't let you get hurt again," he said.

"It's not your job to protect me," I said.

"No, I guess it's not," he murmured, his voice quiet. "I'll see you in the morning." He turned to go, but the door suddenly blew open, slamming against the wall. A vision of the monk sailed into the room, laughing with that hissy, snake-like voice.

"Leave this place," it whispered, "or you'll remain here always."

I was transfixed, staring at the thing that had thrown me across a room. Dean recovered a lot faster than I had. He pulled out a gun from the waistband of his jeans, aimed it at the monk.

"Hey, Beetlejuice," he said. "Go to hell."

The sound from the gun made me jump, breaking me out of my trance. I damn near pissed myself as I saw the monk disappear in a whiff of smoke.

"You shot it?"

Dean turned to me, one corner of his mouth tilting in a half-smile. "It's not gone forever. It just can't come back right now."

I blew out a breath, sank onto the edge of the bed. Dean sat down next to me, threw an arm around my shoulder.

"You okay, there, Ace?" he asked.

I smiled. "God, I haven't been called that in forever."

"Who used to call you that?"

"My dad."

He fell silent, squeezed my shoulders. The unspoken bond was there. We both lost our fathers. Of course, mine was murdered by people, his sold his soul to save him. Not too much comparison, but the pain of the loss was there all the same.

"Dean?"

"Hmm?"

I sucked in a breath, let it out noisily. "Thanks for everything you did for me today. I know I'm not the best patient in the world."

"You're a pain in the ass," he said. "But you're welcome."

We sat like that for a few moments, then Dean stood. "I better let you get some sleep."

The laugh that bubbled out of my mouth was only slightly hysterical. "After that, I'm not sleeping any time soon."

"Do you want me to stay for a while?"

As much as it pained me to do it, I nodded. "Would you?"

He stretched out on the bed, crossing his ankles and putting one hand behind his head, the other hand holding the remote. I laid down next to him, realized I was wide awake.

"Go to sleep," he murmured.

"Can't yet. You um, you asked me earlier about the police academy."

I felt his head turn to gaze at me, but I couldn't look him in the eyes. He stayed silent, waiting for me to continue.

After a breath, I did. "Some of the guys in the class had a problem with women on the force. They were sexist pricks. My last month, only four weeks from graduation, I was woken one night by three men standing around my bed dressed all in black. They wrapped me in a blanket and beat the shit out of me."

He gasped, but I still couldn't look at him.

"I was in the hospital for three weeks, three miserable weeks. They had me hooked up to monitors, I was bandaged and stitched. When my lead instructor came in to see me, I told him he and the entire force could go to hell, that I was done, that I had no interest in being a cop ever. The worst part was, he seemed pretty happy when I said that."

"Do you think he was one of them?"

"I don't know," I said. "Either he was, or he put them up to it. It doesn't matter anymore. I got a nice settlement from the department, the men weren't identified, and I left the area as soon as they discharged me from the hospital. I haven't been back since."

"Jesus," he breathed. "I'm sorry you had to go through that."

"Me, too," I told him on a yawn. "I think I would have made a good cop. Instead, I went with journalism. Much safer," I joked. I snuggled down into the pillow, closed my eyes.

Right before I fell asleep, I felt a light brush across my face, but I was asleep before I could identify what it was.


	4. When pranks go awry

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except my wildly creative imagination, and Aislin, she's mine, too.**

**A/N: See what happens when I have something finished? I just want to keep posting! It's terrible, I know, but hey, if ya'll are enjoying it (and according to the awesome reviews I'm getting, you do), then I'll happily oblige and post some more. And what's this? One more chapter after this? Say it isn't so! As always, much thanks to those who reviewed, and those that have read it and haven't reviewed, I hope you're liking it! Onward!**

**Chapter Four: When pranks go awry**

I jerked awake, wrenching my already sore wrists. How the hell I could sleep chained to a wall in a cold basement was beyond me. I must have been more tired than I realized.

There were sounds above me, like someone moving heavy furniture. I didn't know how long I'd been there, but I was almost certain it hadn't been a day yet. With no windows, it was impossible to tell, and I couldn't see my watch. My muscles were cramping, and as far as I could tell, there was no relief in sight. Add to that I had to pee so bad my bladder was hurting, and I was downright miserable.

I only hoped Sam and Dean were looking for me. They had to be. I would have been dead by now if they weren't. I leaned my head against the wall.

That next morning, my dear readers, was the start of the end.

I woke up, warm, comfortable - extremely comfortable. I opened my eyes, wondering when the blue comforter on the bed had turned brown. It was then I felt the strong arm around my waist and the rise and fall of a well-built chest.

I was pressed up against Dean's side, my head resting on his chest, with his arm wrapped around me securing me against him. My right arm was slung across him, my left trapped beneath me. Dean's face was pressed against my hair, his breath blowing strands down in my eyes.

As much as Dean and I seemed to butt heads, he was quite a comfortable pillow. I glanced at my watch, saw it was 8:00 a.m. Work started at 9:00. I shifted a little, and Dean's arm tightened around me, right across the large bruise on my back.

"Ouch!"

He came awake with a start, immediately relaxing his arm to fall behind me onto the bed.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"It's 8:00." I sat up, rubbed my eyes. He stretched, sat up as well.

"I'm hungry."

I grinned. "What else is new?" I swung my legs over the bed, stood and stretched. I felt and heard the satisfying pops of my joints, sighed.

"That's not natural," Dean quipped from the bed. I turned and looked at him. He had laid back down, his eyes closed.

"Are you getting up?"

"Eventually."

If he wanted to forget the fact that we woke up twined in each other's arms like lovers, I was more than happy to oblige him. "Well, shake a leg, Foghorn. We're wasting good daylight."

"Are you serious?"

I picked up a pillow from the bed, threw it on his face. "We've got work in an hour."

"Which gives me 55 minutes to sleep," came the muffled reply.

I rolled my eyes, ducked into the bathroom to put on jeans, a skater t-shirt and to brush my teeth. I ran my brush through my hair, swiped on some eyeliner and mascara (not that it helped with the three two-inch long scratches across my cheek) and went back into the room. Dean was still on the bed, the pillow still over his face.

"I'm going to make sure Sam's up." I left the room, walked down the corridor to Sam and Dean's room. I knocked. "Sam, you up?"

Nothing. I tried the door, found it locked. I bent, picked the lock, and let myself in.

Sam was face down on his bed, wearing his boxers and nothing else. I stifled a giggle, took a moment to appreciate the muscles of his back. These Winchester boys were insanely good-looking, it just wasn't fair. I approached him on silent feet. When I got right to the side of the bed, I bent down over him.

"SAM!"

He jumped, coming to a full upright position in a nanosecond. "Jesus, Aislin, are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Nope, just getting you up."

"Well, I'm up." He looked over at Dean's still-made bed. "Where's Dean?"

"Uh, my room," I said. "He came to check on me last night, the monk showed up in the room and I'll admit to being a total chickenshit and not wanting to be alone. So he stayed."

Sam frowned. "Aislin, you and Dean --"

I held up a hand. "It's not like that at all, Sam. We both remained fully clothed all through the night." I willed myself not to blush, remembering my shirt being pulled up around my neck when I rolled over. To my credit, I managed to keep a straight face. "Anyway, we got work at 9:00. I'm going back to my room to shove your brother onto the floor."

"He's not so much a morning person," Sam said.

"Yeah, I noticed." I left Sam yawning and trekked back to my room. Dean was in the exact same position on the bed as I left him, snoring softly beneath the pillow. I lifted the pillow off his face, looked at his deceptively angelic face, and got a very wicked idea.

I knelt beside the bed, leaned in close. "Dean," I whispered in his ear, in my sexiest voice. "Dean, wake up, I got a surprise for you."

He moaned, eyebrows lifting, and turning his face toward me. "I like surprises," he said, voice thick with sleep.

"I know," I whispered. "And you'll love this one."

One cracked opened, gazed at me. "Hm," he said.

"What?"

"You look like Aislin," he told me.

"But I'm not, Dean." I was enjoying this entirely too much. "I'm much more fun. If only I were alive, I'd show you."

His eyes flew open, he rolled to his right, away from me and landed on the floor with an oof. He was on his feet in seconds, gun drawn. I was laughing so hard it barely registered.

"Damn it!" he bellowed. "Aislin, I almost shot you!"

The anger in his voice sobered me instantly. "You sleep with your gun?"

"Yes!"

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I yelled. "What kind of a crackpot sleeps with a gun?"

"One who gets visited by psycho monks in the middle of the night!"

We were both screaming. I couldn't believe that an innocent prank had turned into a screaming match. I glared at him for a moment before simply turning and leaving the room, slamming the door behind me.

I met Sam on the walkway outside. "What happened?" he asked.

"Your brother is twisted!" I yelled. I didn't even pause, just stomped off to be alone.

To think, the nerve of that guy, yelling at me that way. I knew for a fact that occasionally he and Sam got into prank wars. I guess it was my mistake to think that I could simply assimilate myself into their world.

Yeah, it was my mistake. I shook my head, stalked off toward the motel office. Once there, I used the pay phone, booked a bus ticket back to PA. I was way out of my league here. I nearly got myself shot because I thought I was being funny. What a freaking idiot.

Once my ticket was booked, I slammed the receiver down, spun around and ran straight into Dean. He reached out, balanced me, then dropped his arms.

"You're leaving?"

I nodded, swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat. "You were right, Dean," I told him. "I don't belong here. I'm going home." I brushed past him, but he sidestepped in front of me, blocking my path.

"I came to apologize."

"What? Dean Winchester apologize? That would imply you did something wrong." I wasn't letting him off easy. I was still pissed.

"I overreacted." He ran a hand through his hair. "I shouldn't have yelled like that."

"It doesn't matter. You were still right."

He took a breath. "No, I was wrong. And trust me, sweetheart, that's not something you'll hear ever again. Stay. I want you to stay."

What? Dean Winchester was admitting he was wrong? What planet had I just been abducted to? I stared at him, read the sincerity in his eyes, and knew I wasn't leaving. God damn him. He went with honesty and won.

Though I could have said something witty and sarcastic, I only gave him a curt nod and strode past him, back to the motel. As much fun as it would have been to embarrass him, I know it probably damn near killed him to admit that to me and give me what passed for an apology.

It was kind of nice to know he cared enough to opt for the truth.

Footsteps. I heard footsteps outside my little hole in the basement. Though I was hoping it was Dean or Sam, I could tell, by the heavy footfalls on the floor, that it wasn't. They'd never be that loud. I wouldn't hear either of them show up.

The door swung open, and I squinted against the assault of light on my dark-accustomed eyes. Then there was a large frame silhouetted in the doorway, and I was scared.

Oh yes, scared. The man entered the room, left the door open.

"You're going to tell me where they are," he growled.

I was weak, both from the loss of blood from the wound in my shoulder and being stuck down there for however long I was without sleep, but I struggled to my feet to face him more squarely. And if I leaned against the wall to keep myself upright, I only hoped he didn't notice.

"I don't know where they are." My voice was little more than a croak from disuse. I cleared my throat, swallowed. "And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you."

"I've searched the motels in the area, and there's no sign of them. I can't even find the damned car!"

His anger pleased me. They were still out there. And I knew they were looking for me. "Then they're probably gone," I said.

"Gone? Without you?" He sounded unconvinced. "Why would they leave one of their own?"

"I'm not one of their own. I'm a reporter. I was riding with them for a few days to do an article on them. They don't give a shit about me. I was nothing but a pain in the ass to both of them."

He stared at me, and I thought maybe it had worked, but then he laughed. "Nice try, little lady. Even if that were true, they don't strike me as the kind of men who would leave behind a defenseless woman."

Damn.

"No." He moved away from, over to the far wall. "You're going to tell me, one way or another."

I glanced down, and actually recoiled further against the wall when I saw the leather whip in his hand.

My God, I was a reporter, not a secret agent! And this man was going to torture me to tell him something I didn't know! Panic clawed at my throat, a tear slipped past my usually stoic defenses.

I was in deep shit, and though I knew Dean and Sam wouldn't actually leave me, I had no idea where they were or if they even knew where _I_ was.

The man approached me, reached out, and I screamed. It didn't do any good. He grabbed my shirt and tore it off, then spun me around so my back was to him.

"Where are they?" he asked again, his mouth right by my ear.

I drew a shuddering breath. "I don't know." It was barely a whisper. I could have kicked myself for being so damned weak.

"Where are they?"

"I don't know." My voice was stronger this time, more sure.

The first lash across my back felt like fire. I cried out, braced my palms against the cool wall.

"Where are they?" The calmness of the man, of the sing-songy lilt in his voice, brought my ire up.

"I don't freakin' know!" I yelled.

The second lash was worse than the first. I could feel warmth sliding down my back, knew it to be blood. I was terrified - terrified and hurt. It didn't matter what I told him, he'd do what he wanted to me, and I couldn't stop him.

"Where are they?" he bellowed.

"Go to hell!" My voice had now taken on a hysterical tone. It felt like flames were licking up my back, burning my skin. I was crying openly now, and I didn't care. The silent plea I sent up to anyone that was listening would go unanswered, but I did it anyway. Please, someone, help me.

What felt like a dozen licks later, but was probably only four, the man stormed out of the basement, leaving me a shaking, sobbing ball on the floor.

I had never felt pain like I was experiencing at that moment. Not even the beating at the academy compared to this. The floor was wet with my blood, and for the first time, I was certain I would die in that dirty, dank basement. I curled into the corner, pressed my face against the cool wall, and drifted in and out of consciousness, remembering how I came to be there.


	5. An end is nothing more than a beginning

**Disclaimer: Though it'd be nice, I don't own the boys, the car, or the series. So jealous of Kripke.**

**A/N: Well, here it is. The final chapter. I will tell you that I'm sort of working on a sequel, but so far, it's quite a lot darker than this fic has been. And I mean, it's dark, it's brutal, and it makes me sad when I'm writing it. I'm still kicking around the idea of whether or not it's going to go anywhere. So we'll see. Again, a hundred thousand thank you's to everyone that's reviewed, everyone that's put this on their alert list, and everyone who's read my little fic. And now, I give you the last chapter.**

**Chapter Five: An end is nothing more than a beginning**

After Dean had more or less apologized and convinced me to stay, the three of us went back to the mission. There was work to be done, and it wasn't painting.

I stayed with Dean, on his insistence (I was sufficiently freaked out enough not to argue), and we began asking questions. Who was really pissed that Deanna was renovating the mission? Who would have the most to gain by her not completing the work? Most of the men there were more than happy to gossip about it.

By noon, we had half a dozen names.

Sam took three to question, and Dean and I had the other three. We began by going to places in the small town where people seemed to gather. The diner was first.

"Dave Chintaqas? Yeah, he's pissed about the renovations. But so is everyone," said the waitress, pouring the both of us coffee. Of course, stopping at the diner entitled Dean to a huge lunch. I picked at my club sandwich that I had ordered, but I wasn't really hungry. I wanted to solve this case as much as they did, and taking a timeout for lunch wasn't high on my to-do list.

The waitress was in her forties, with dark hair pulled back into a sensible bun. She was shapely, and I had no doubt that she probably worked hard to maintain that shape.

"Anyone who might have the motivation and resources to sabotage the work going on?" Dean asked, giving her his most charming smile. I actually stopped chewing to stare at him. Then I glanced at the waitress, who was absolutely preening. She blushed red to her toes, smiled flirtatiously.

"Well, now, Ray Daniels is mighty upset about it. He's been petitioning the local magistrate to stop progress, saying that the mission is a historical landmark and shouldn't be messed with. He even threatened that Deanna Landry out in public once. 'Course, everyone had fallen deaf that heard it."

"Thank you very much, Sue Ann," Dean told her, winking.

The woman actually giggled as she walked away, swaying her hips in her most seductive fashion.

"Are you the reincarnation of Don Juan?" I hissed at him.

"What?"

"You smile and they practically fall over themselves to talk to you," I said.

Dean took a huge bite of his sandwich and grinned at me. "It's not my fault women think I'm irresistible."

"No, but it is your fault that you take advantage of that."

This time he actually laughed. "Are you jealous?"

I rolled my eyes. "Just because I'm immune to your charms doesn't make me jealous."

"Immune to my charms?" His eyes narrowed. "Careful, Aislin, I may take that as a challenge."

"You take that however you want." I stood up, dropped my napkin on the table. "I'm going to use the restroom. I'll be back."

I walked away, ignoring the howling laughter I heard coming from Dean. He was truly infuriating.

I was in the bathroom, washing my hands, when the door opened. I glanced in the mirror in reaction, and gasped aloud as a large man wearing a cowboy hat strolled in.

"I think you're in the wrong bathroom," I said.

"Now, little lady, I think you're wrong." His Texan accent was impossible to miss, as was the glinting, expensive-looking belt buckle he was wearing. When he came toward me, I spun around, bracing my back against the counter.

"What do you want?"

"For now, I'll just take you." He reached out, and I didn't even have a chance to scream as he plunged a pocket knife into my shoulder, pulled the blade out and clocked me on the side of the head with the handle. As darkness enveloped me and the world tilted sickeningly, all I could think of was that I didn't even get a chance to hit him.

I came back to the basement and my precarious situation when my head lolled back and smacked painfully against the bricks of the basement wall. I snapped awake, groaning at the terrible pain in my back.

My breathing was shallow. I was in so much pain I couldn't draw a full breath. I didn't know how much longer I'd be able to stay conscious, but I wouldn't give up. I was keeping myself awake on will alone, and the hope that Sam and Dean were close.

Please, God, let them be close.

I found it slightly amusing how, at the beginning, all I wanted was a story and a career. What I got was a hard lesson on the dark side of life, a side Sam and Dean Winchester lived in every moment of their lives. No one could fault them for being cold and hard, for ending up on the wrong side of the law.

The laws of the supernatural defied the laws of man.

Though my situation would have warranted me wanting to return to a normal life, I didn't think it was possible to simply forget all that I had seen and experienced in the few short days I'd spent with the Winchesters. Nor could I believe how the majority of people didn't even realize the things that went on in the world. Ghosts, monsters, stuff of fairytales, and it was all true. More than that, there were people who sacrificed everything to fight them, to keep the world as safe as they could.

The Winchesters were heroes. The idea of telling them that was amusing. Sam would blush and deny it, while Dean would grin that truly lethal smile and accept it as his due praise. The man really was that arrogant.

A twinge of pain in my back brought me crashing back to reality. Heroes or no, I was still in trouble. I attempted to move, but every muscle seized and I cried out. Sobbing now, all I wanted was to accept my fate and die. It would feel far better than the pain.

When the door burst open again, the wood splintering as if a bomb had gone off, I tried to make myself as small as I could in the corner of the room. He was back, and he was going to kill me this time.

"Aislin?"

Dean's voice. Dean's voice echoed in the room. "Dean?" I whispered.

Then he was there, before me, strong, warm hands on my face. "My God," he said, "what did that son of a bitch do to you?"

I was crying, and for once, I didn't care. It was enough that he was there, that they both were there, for Sam was right beside him, picking the lock on my shackles. When they came undone, I pitched forward, into Dean's arms.

"Jesus, Dean," I heard Sam whisper. "Look at her back."

I felt Dean's muscles tighten, his hands grip just a little harder on my shoulders. Then they left me, only to be replaced by something warm being draped over me. I realized it to be the button-down shirt he'd been wearing that day. It smelled like him, masculine, exotic. Then he was lifting me in his arms.

"This time, you're going to the hospital, no arguments."

His voice was tight with emotion. I laid my head against his chest, wrapped my arms around his neck and reveled in the safeness I was experiencing.

The sensation didn't last. As Dean turned around to leave the basement, it was blocked by the large man from earlier. Despite being safe in Dean's arms, a whimper escaped me. I felt Dean go still, felt all his muscles lock into place.

"Now, just where do ya'll think you're going?" the man drawled out.

Dean turned, set me back on the floor. I clung to him, shaking my head. "No, Dean."

"Shh," he said. "It's all right. Sammy's right here."

In response, Sam sat beside me, wrapped his long arms loosely around me. "I'm not going anywhere," he vowed. Then he looked up. "Dean, be careful."

I saw Dean give a terse nod, then straighten and turn around again. I leaned into Sam, more exhausted than I thought I could be, and watched Dean move stiffly toward the man still framed in the doorway.

"Daniels, forget about it. You're little buddy is gone, sent back to hell. And there's nothing stopping me from kicking your ass right now."

The man he'd called Daniels laughed humorlessly. "You think you can take me, boy?" He stepped into the room. "Let's see you try."

When Dean hit him, a hard right to the face, I felt a small surge of joy over it. I was mad as hell that it wasn't me doing the hitting, but it felt good all the same. Daniels staggered back, spat blood from his now split lip. "Gonna pay for that, boy."

"I don't think so," retorted Dean, sending another punch smashing into the man's face. Daniels finally lashed out with his own fist, but he was slow, lumbering, and Dean ducked it easily. He followed up with a hit to his stomach, and shoved the man backwards. He staggered, tripped, and crashed through the open doorway and into the wall beyond. I watched his head snap back, and he slid bonelessly to the floor, his eyes glazed over.

Dean was crouched before me an instant later. "That was quick," I murmured. As he lifted me into his arms once again, pressed his face to my hair, I knew it was over. At least for now. Ray Daniels would go to prison, I'd go back to Pennsylvania and… and what? What could I do now?

My head was fuzzy, and I was having trouble keeping my eyes open. I relaxed into Dean. It was best to think about these things when I had a clear head, and I was so damned tired. My last thought before I finally allowed the darkness to take me was of the man carrying me out of that horrible, dark basement, and if I would ever see him again.

When I woke up, it was to a blindingly white ceiling, the same color walls, and a constant beeping. I turned my head and saw Dean, slouched in a chair, his head in his hands.

"Dean?"

His head snapped up and relief washed over his face. "Thank God, you're awake." He rose from the chair, came over to the bed and eased himself onto the edge. "How do you feel?"

"Like I was chained to a wall for a day and whipped."

He managed a smile, though it was tight-lipped. I reached up, cupped his cheek. "You and Sam are incredible," I told him. "You didn't have to save me, but you did."

"Aislin, despite being a pain in my ass," he said, "and despite the end, I had a lot of fun on this case. You're the reason why I had fun." This time the smile was real. "It's nice to meet a girl who's 'immune to my charms' for a change."

"How long do I have to stay here?"

"About two weeks."

"How did you guys find me?" That was the question he was waiting to hear, I guessed, because he sighed before answering.

"When you didn't come back, I went looking for you. Scared some ladies in the restroom, too. I knew you didn't just take off, because I could see on your face that you wanted to get to the bottom of the case as much as Sam and I did. So I called Sam, told him what we'd heard and that you were gone, and we went looking for that Ray Daniels guy. We found him, questioned him, and we agreed that there was something not right about it. He answered every question right, but there was just something off. So we checked out of the motel and hid in the woods south of town. We saw him go to the motel, search our rooms. And we waited."

"And then you followed him back to his place and found me?"

He shook his head. "He had you in the basement of the mission, actually. We had to take care of that damn monk, first."

"And they're both done?"

Dean nodded. "The monk's been sent back to hell, Ray Daniels is in prison for kidnapping and attempted murder."

"And you and Sam have to get the hell out of here before the police start asking you questions."

He seemed surprised at my comment, but recovered quickly. "Actually, it turns out Deanna's the sheriff's sister. She gave us a place to stay until you're out of here."

"So you're staying?"

Dean smiled. "When you're released, we'll drive you back to Bobby's where your car is."

"Thank you," I said, and meant it.

I'd been stitched up, suffered a mild concussion from the blow to my head, but thankfully nothing worse. My shoulder where I was stabbed had been the worst injury, requiring stitches inside and out, but my back was the most painful. I couldn't ever remember a time in my life when I'd been more beat up. Even the police academy incident hadn't been that bad.

Two weeks later - two terrifying, longest-time-of-my-life weeks later - they finally cut me loose. I hated hospitals. The smell, the sounds, the quiet, hushed atmosphere, it was like these people were waiting for death. I absolutely hated it. I silently vowed to never be stuck in one again.

My muscles were stiff from disuse, but my back was fairly healed, all the stitches had come out, and my shoulder was doing all right. All I had to bitch about, really, was the crisscross network of scars that my back would be sporting once the lash wounds healed completely. As I didn't see my back on a regular basis, I could deal with it.

The ride back to Bobby's was rather subdued and quiet. In part because I knew after we got there, I'd probably never see the Winchesters again. I'd come to genuinely like them in the few weeks I'd been with them. Dean had come to the hospital every day to keep my spirits up, and the fear at bay. I knew that's why he'd done it, but I kept silent about it. Sam had come, too, but he was broody, saying little.

When I finally asked him why he was so quiet, the younger Winchester had shrugged and offered me a light smile. "I hate seeing people in hospitals," he'd explained. Though I had a feeling there was more to the story, he'd offer none, and I hadn't asked for it.

Bobby's hadn't changed in the three weeks since I'd walked in to meet Sam and Dean, and had my life changed forever. I didn't really expect it to, but with all that I'd seen and all that I'd learned, it was almost a disappointment.

We were standing outside the house in a circle.

"Well, I guess I'd better get on the road," I said to the three men. "I've got a lot of miles to cover to get back to PA."

"So you get your story?" Bobby asked.

"I got a story all right," I told him. I said goodbye to Bobby, gave Sam a hug. "Take care of your big brother," I whispered to him.

He smiled. "I try."

"And thank you for everything you did, Sam. You're amazing."

He blushed, but gave me a smacking kiss on the cheek. "Take care of yourself."

Dean walked me over to my car. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"I'm fine, Dean."

"If you ever need anything, at least anything we can help you with, call us."

I nodded. We exchanged phone numbers, though I didn't expect either of us would be calling the other.

"Listen, Aislin, I really did like having you around on this case."

"I know, Dean. And if you're ever in Pennsylvania, look me up. We'll go get a beer or something."

As far as dismissals went, I thought this was a better one. Dean stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Well, I guess I'll be seeing you."

We stared at each other, and I made a decision. I stepped forward, leaned in and kissed him. He was shocked at first, then his hands came out of his pockets and around me. He tilted his head, deepened the kiss.

And I pulled back.

"What was that for?" he asked.

"Just wanted to see what I was missing," I told him.

"See what you were missing?" he echoed.

"Being all immune to your charms," I explained.

He laughed. "You're something else, Aislin."

"Yeah, I know." I leaned forward and hugged him tightly. "Thank you, Dean, for everything."

"Likewise," he muttered into my hair. Then he planted a kiss on my neck and I damn near jumped out of my shoes. I recovered enough to pull back and give my own charming smile.

"I'll see you," I told him. And got into my car. It really felt like I was leaving home, even though I hadn't really had one when I was growing up. The house I lived in was just that, a house. It wasn't home. It wasn't warm, with people I cared about in it, mementos of a lifetime of family gatherings, holidays, birthdays. It was a place to sleep, to shower, to eat at.

I felt a sense of loss when I thought about not seeing any of the three men again. Bobby was like a quirky father-figure, and Dean and Sam, well, they were just like family. I couldn't give them a label, because there wasn't one that encompassed everything they'd come to mean to me. They were just family.

As I drove away, beeping the horn and waving out the window, I brushed away a stray tear that slid down my cheek. I knew I could never go back to my simple journalistic life. I knew things now, things I hadn't before. And I knew beyond any doubt that I'd be staring into black shadows and wondering exactly what was there, waiting to prey on the innocent.

I had changed, and I had Sam and Dean Winchester to thank for that. And thank them I would, eventually.

I reigned in my emotions, turned up the radio, and blasted down the highway, my fond memories of the previous three weeks playing over and over in my head.

**End**


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